All Aboard the Dreamland Express
by SnowboundMermaid
Summary: Farhampton, 2017. The gang convenes on the fabled front porch at long last, to regroup and address a pressing concern. Written for ficathon suggested by Beneath the Umbrella.


Farhampton, 2017

"Is this it?" Ted asks from his seat on the front porch. "Is everybody really asleep?"

Barney stops in the doorway and cocks his head, ears pricked for any hint of a sound, closes his eyes so he can concentrate better. There's nothing. No whimpers, no giggles, no requests for water or complaints of the wrong stuffed animal. Nothing. _Finally_. Barney opens his eyes and surveys his surroundings. His and Robin's dogs, Hansel and Gretel, sleep in two furry puddles of exhaustion on either side of the walk, one brown, one white. Literally, not a creature is stirring; that's the dream. "I think they are." Each word comes out slow and meaasured, as though the wrong tone or pitch could break the spell. He takes quick, cautious steps to the six Muskoka chairs -he cringes. They're Adirondack chairs. Adirondack.- grouped around the reclaimed driftwood table. Ted and Tracy's vacation housewarming gift is now host to a pitcher of iced tea and six tall, clear glasses, Marshall and Lily's present. He picks what's already become his favorite chair, the one with the best view of the sandcastle village they'd built just out of reach of the tide, and drops into it with a sigh of relief. He sets the chrome plated baby monitor on the table. Three lights glow green. If anything happens, they'll hear it.

"Miracle," Marshall whispers, not loud enough to wake any mini-thems who are not yet in entirely in the land of Nod. His head shakes. "What do we even do without kids? It's been so long, I don't remember."

Robin settles on the armrest of Barney's chair. The skirt of her gauzy pink sundress flows about long, tanned legs. "Why is everybody looking at us?" She smells like talcum powder, strawberries and sugar. He could go for some more strawberry shortcake, if Penny and Marvin left any for the rest of them. Chasing five kids and two dogs up and down the beach all day, on top of keeping a sixth fed, dry and happy, requires sufficient fuel. Tomorrow is only going to be more of the same, and the day after that. Not that he's complaining, because he isn't. Vacation Barney could get used to this. Maybe he even is, a little. He did make it an entire day in walking shorts. He wraps his arm about Robin's waist and pulls her closer, rests his hand on the curve of her hip.

Ted shrugs. "I figured you two would be the most likely to remember. You do have the youngest baby." He pats the seat of the chair next to him as soon as Tracy appears in the doorway, black lacquered tray in hand.

Barney scratches the scruff on his jaw and cranes his neck. Cheese and crackers; Gouda, Swiss, brie, three different crackers, a bunch of grapes. Close enough. "I vaguely remember something about alcohol. Guess I could make a beer run." He slides a glance at Robin. "Unless we have anything. Do we have anything?"

Robin shakes her head, a wistful tilt to her mouth. "Best we can do is a bottle of apple juice that looks a little funky."

"We haven't had much of anything at home for" Barney looks to Robin again. They've become like the others; it takes two of them now to complete a single thought. "What, about a year right?" She nods. "I only drink at the office. It's like being on _Mad Men_."

Robin twirls her hair around her finger, her lashes dipping over her eyes. Her muffled giggle warms his blood. "Really good show," she says, and he knows she isn't talking about TV. The way she drags out the _really_ tells him all he needs to know.

He makes a mental note to stop by the bar for a whisky -just one- on his way home on Monday, no breath mints afterward.

Her brow crinkles. "Kissing this guy is the closest I've come to having a drink in so long that I think i may have lost my taste for it. "

"The alcohol, not the kissing," Barney is quick to add. Not that he drinks at, or after, work that much anymore. He'd rather be home, with his two favorite girls. Three, if he counts Gretel. He decides he will. Vacation Barney is feeling particularly generous tonight.

Tracy makes sympathetic clucking noises as she pours the tea into each glass and tops it with a sprig of fresh mint. "Occupational hazard. You'll get over it, trust me." She pinches off a grape and pops it in her mouth. "Until then, think of the grapes as baby wine."

"Once you're done nursing," Lily assures Robin, "you can go right back on the sauce. Marshall always gets me a bottle of top shelf champagne to celebrate. You should get Barney to do the same thing. You guys should be able to afford the really good stuff, if buying this house didn't wipe you out. Still glad you picked a vacation house over that trip to Argentina?"

Robin shifts in her perch on the arm of the chair. Barney tightens his arm about her waist, in support. They'd discussed talking about this, decided she'd be the one to spill the beans, or not, and now that the moment is here, the hair on his arms raises in anticipation. He wants to hear her say it so much that he has to concentrate on not-bouncing his leg. Once she says it, it's real. "We made the right choice," she says in her on-air voice, "but, um, maybe it's just as well I'm losing my taste for alcohol." Her hand rests on top of Barney's, her fingers threading through his. He gives her a supportive squeeze.

"Oh?" Tracy fixes Robin with an inquisitive stare. "Sounds like there's some reason for that."

Robin quirks one brow at Barney. _Should I say it, or do you want to?_

 _You do it_. His thumb sweeps across her palm.

Her free hand toys with the thin gold chain around her neck. "We're not entirely sure we don't want to do this whole baby thing again. We're in a good place right now, personally and financially. Our careers are stable. Neither of us are getting any younger, and we both liked growing up with a sibling, so yeah. After I'm done nursing, we're going to try for baby number two." One spaghetti strap slides down her shoulder. Barney drags the strap back into place.

Lily's "Woo!" pierces the dark enough to wake Hansel and Gretel. Both shaggy heads rise as she claps her hand over her mouth.

The tags on Hansel's collar jingle. Gretel cocks her head and looks to Barney. "Settle down," he commands them with a wave of his hand.

"Sorry," Lily whispers. Hansel and Gretel resume puddle formation. The adults wait, senses on high alert. Nothing.

Ted slaps the air above the armrest of his chair in a decisive motion. "Drinks or no drinks, we should do something to celebrate all of us being in one place at the same time. We are on the front porch. The freaking front porch. We made it. This is the dream. We are on the front porch, and we got all the kids to sleep at the same time. " He pauses there. "How _did_ we get all the kids to sleep at the same time? "

Marshall drapes an arm about Lily's shoulders and scoots his chair closer so their armrests touch. "The secret lies in staggered, age-appropriate bedtimes."

"Since we have our lullabies down," Lily continues, "there's really no trouble transitioning between kids." Marshall and Lily's hands connect in an over-the-head high five.

Robin's brows lift. " _Lullabies,_ plural? Like a new one for each kid?" Nascent panic edges her voice.

Marshall and Lily rear back in only slightly exaggerated affront. "Of coruse a new one for each kid." Marshall's eyes round in shock. "What were we supposed to do, recycle 'Night Night, Little Marvin' for each of the other two? In what world does that make each child know they are loved for the special and matchless human being they are?" Lily rubs his arm as though he's in pain.

Barney waves off Marshall's protest. "The kids aren't going to know their parents are recycling songs. They're babies. They literally do not know any better. That one in there?" He jerks a thumb over his shoulder. "Doesn't even know those are her own feet. She does not have a vast musical library in her head."

Marshall scoffs. "Barney, you and Robin are new at all of this, so allow a veteran to drop some knowledge. Each child is a unique individual, with their own needs and preferences. It's the parents' job to tailor the bedtime routines to the specific needs of each child. "

Ted leans forward. "I'm not so sure about that. _We_ have story time all together, in the big bed. Each one of us gets a turn at picking the story for the night. I read to the kids, always making sure to use different voices for each character, and Tracy plays soothing music on her ukelele. The story choosing rotation is posted on the family calendar, so everybody gets a fair shot and there is no room for confusion. When story time is over, Tracy plays 'La Vie en Rose, we tuck the kids into their separate beds -"

"Then I wake Ted back up," Tracy says with an indulgent smile.

Ted objects. "Hey! I thought we were going to keep that part within the family."

"Pooh Bear, we are with family." Tracy dips the sugar tongs into the cut crystal bowl and picks up two sugar cubes. One cube drops into Ted's glass, one into hers.

Ted relaxes. "Oh, right. Once the babies are tucked in bed, time for mommy and daddy to do the same thing."

A long-handled iced tea spoon clinks against the side of the glass as Tracy stirs. Barney doesn't miss the blush that rides high on her cheeks. _Nice job, Teddy Westchester._

Lily dangles one beaded sandal from the tips of her turquoise-painted toes. "Robin, do you and Barney have a bedtime routine down yet? For the baby," she adds before Robin can answer. "Not for each other, but we are all adults here, so..." she trails off and scoots to the edge of her seat. Her sandal falls to the floor.

"Please. We just give her cough syrup." Barney toes off his own boat shoes and flexes bare feet in the cool night air.

The reactions explode all at once, like a fireworks finale.

"What?" Tracy's voice comes dangerously close to a screech.

Ted crosses that barrier. "Are you insane? Robin, did you know he's drugging your kid?"

"Tell me I did not hear you right!" Lily warms up her dead-to-me look.

This is better than he'd expected. They're going for it. Time to commit even further. "It's my, well, _our,"_ he pauses for a long, meaningful look at Robin, "latest invention. Sippy Shots, by Scherbatsky-Stinson. Fill a shot glass with cough syrup, stick a Latex nipple on it, shove it in the kid's piehole, and it's an express ticket to baby dreamland and grownup funtime. Patent pending."

Marshall leaps out of his seat. "More like a call to children's services pending. I'm a mandated reporter. If I know a parent is dosing their kid, I have to turn them in. I took an oath." He shoves both hands through his hair, his face pinched with concern as he paces the length of the porch. "Lily, I need my phone."

Robin lets out a breath of pure exasperation. "Marshall, sit down. There are no Sippy Shots."

Marshal stops, midpace. "No Sippy Shots?"

"No Sippy Shots. Barney tracked down lullaby versions of all the songs on his Get Psyched mix. We play that on low, and she goes right out within minutes. Hasn't failed us yet."

Barney beams at his own genius. "I call it our Get Sleepy mix."

Tracy leans forward. Long dark curls fall over her shoulders. "How did you even come up with that idea? Don't get me wrong, you've had some doozies, but this...this could work."

"Tracy, I am glad you asked that. It's easy. The Get Psyched mix was playing when our bundle of joy was concieved, so it's only natural for her to find that music comforting. Somewhere in that mix is the first sound she ever heard."

Robin groans. "That is not the first sound she ever heard. She didn't have ears at conception."

"Babies in the womb are aware of more than we give them credit for. True story."

Marshall and Ted exchange knowing looks. Ted shakes his head. "Ah, the expertise of the first time father. Marshall and I were like you once. Then we had kids. Sorry, my friend, but you do not know squat about children's bedtimes."

Robin fingered Barney' s open collar. One finger traced the lines of the Madras plaid. "I'm not too sure about that. Barney is taking to fatherhood surprisingly well. When I say Barney tracked down lullaby versions of all the songs on his mix, I do not mean he did an internet search and downloaded tracks. There was no lullabye version of 'Murder Train,' so he flew Simon down to New York to record one."

"Totally worth it, even if it did mean Simon slept on our couch for a week. Now, 'Slumber Train' by Simon Tremblay is the number one lullabye on the Canadian charts. Dominant Records has signed him to a three-album deal, brokered by yours truly, for more of the same. We mailed off the contracts before we came out here. Done deal."

Marshall's eyes go wide. "The Foreskins are putting out children's music?"

"No," Barney answers, "just Simon. The other guys thought he was selling out, recording a lullabye, but nobody sees any of _them_ charting with English, French and instrumental versions of the same song. Now Dominant is after this gal." He nudges Robin's leg with his knee.

Robin shoves his shoulder. "Shut up. We weren't going to talk about that."

"Why not?" Lily asks. "You should do it. You could make albums and videos again. We can get VIP passes to your concerts, sit in the front row, hang out backstage. That would be so much fun!"

"And Barney can bring us your outtakes when any of us needs a boost," Marshall finishes for her.

Barney grins. "Way ahead of you on that one." It's worth Robin's elbow in his ribs.

Ted nods his approval. "That would bring you full circle, back to children's entertainment, where you started. That's almost poetic."

Robin pushes away from her perch. Her skirt flutters with the motion. "No, it's stupid. My music career ended a long time ago. I put that part of my life behind me. I'm a serious journalist now."

"Is there any reason you can't do both?" Tracy asks, her voice quiet and calm.

Robin rounds on her, lips pressed tight. A sharp line forms between Robin's eyes. "Because I can't, all right?"

"Oh, so you don't sing to your own baby?" Marshall gestures to the assembled group. "Remember, you have witnesses."

"Yes, but that's _my own baby_. Barney sings to that same baby, and nobody's offering him a recording contract."

Barney slumps back against the seat. "Hey. If somebody would allow me to send in a demo, they might find out differently. Anyway, as Robin's manager and backup singer, I would get a cut of anything Robin made off the deal. I get a manager's cut from Simon's stuff already, but Robin would provide much better benefits." He waggles his brows at her with that. She resumes her spot, her arm about his shoulders. "We even have paperwork, but Robin won't sign."

"Because it's stupid. I had three songs. Four, if we count 'PS, I Love You,' " Robin plucks at her skirt.

"Which they also want," Barney adds, "and it's five, counting the theme from _Space Teens_."

Marshall frowns. "I don't remember any lyrics from the _Space Teens_ theme."

Robin's head dips. Her shoulders slump. "They were never aired, but Jessica and I did record lyrics. Even with that, I only have five songs. It's not enough for an album. They'd want at least five new ones, and I don't have any. What am I going to do, once I get past 'Let's All Go to Sleep' and 'Sandcastles in My Dreams?' sing the news to babies? Yeah, that's a recipe for nightmares right there. Nobody is going to pay me to scare babies." Sweat beads her skin above the neckline of her dress.

"Then you get new songs." Lily grasps onto Marshall's sleeve with all the force of a pit bull on a pork chop. "Marshall will write you some new songs, won't you, baby?"

Marshall covers Lily's hand with his own. "Of course I will. We can start right now. Tracy, how about you get your guitar and I get my banjo? Ted, you're in charge of writing down lyrics."

Ted withdraws a small, black notebook from his breast pocket, a pen clipped to its cover.

Barney pumps a fist. "Yes."

Robin's fingers clamp around his wrist and push his hand down. "No."

Lily settles back in her seat and tucks her legs up beneath her. Both sandals fall to the floor. "I seem to remember a time when you thought you couldn't ever have a baby. Now you and Barney have a beautiful baby girl and you're thinking about having another one. Not to mention that the two of you got married in the first place, and stayed that way. Maybe things that you think are impossible really aren't."

Ted cracked open the notebook and clicked his pen. "May I remind you of all the times I was absolutely convinced that true love didn't exist for me? My last thought before I met Tracy was that I'd missed my last chance. You were married to Barney, and I was resigned to living the rest of my life without the girl of my dreams or my really good friend."

"Best friend."

"One of my best friends." The ribbon marker dangled over the notebook's spine. "Then I saw that beautiful girl standing under that yellow umbrella," he basks in the reward of Tracy's smile, "and that was it. There she was. Here we all are. "

The porch light timer clicks on, bathing Lily's red hair in a golden glow. "I thought there wasn't any room for art in my life, with teaching and Marvin, and Marshall's career. Then the Captain hired me as his art buyer. Then I sold him one of my own paintings on the sly. One of his friends asked him if I could get him another piece from the same artist, and, as luck would have it, I could. Sure, I'm not Georgia O'Keefe, but I am selling my work. Why are you afraid of doing the same thing?"

Robin fingers the tiny red maple leaf and pink bootie hanging from the delicate gold chain about her wrist. "I'm not afraid." The microphone and camera charms click against each other.

"Then prove it." Lily's teacher voice carries even more authority against the waves lapping on the shore. "Barney, did you bring the contracts with you?"

Barney shoves both feet back into his shoes and hauls himself to standing. "As a matter of fact, I did."

Ted puts the ribbon marker back in place and closes the notebook. "Got a pen right here."

Robin opens her mouth to protest. All of her usual objections flash behind her eyes, but she doesn't give them voice. This time. Her hands fist at her side, her nostrils flared.

Light number one flashes red on the baby monitor at the same moment a newborn wail pierces the air. Barney dives for the monitor. "Want me to get her?"

Robin gives a weary smile. "Could you bring her out here? The, um, contracts, too," she adds after half a heartbeat. "You guys are all buying multiple copies of everything." It's a statement, not a question.

Barney doesn't stick around to hear their answers. He's needed elsewhere. He jogs down the hall until he reaches the door with the puffy pink heart hanging from it and stops for only a second. It still doesn't feel real, being here, picking up the tiny person he and Robin made together, but she's real and she's warm and she curls into his chest, her ear against his heart. He presses a kiss on the wispy cornsilk hair that crowns her head and peeks into each of the other two rooms, to make sure the Ericksen and Mosby kids are still asleep. Positive on both counts. Slow, quiet steps take him to the briefcase he set by the door on Thursday night and hasn't touched since. He shifts his daughter onto his shoulder and plucks the correct file from the others, then closes the case to keep out curious dogs.

Robin meets him at the door. Barney relinquishes the warm, squirming form with extreme reluctance, but her tiny mouth is already working, her head turning toward Robin. "Marshall, you may want to take the dogs for a walk. She's going to eat." Robin gives Marshall fair warning before she settles into a Muskoka chair, and shifts the baby into position.

It can be a Muskoka chair when she's in it, Vacation Barney decides. When _they're_ in it, he corrects himself. Damn, how did he get this lucky?

Marshall turns as red as a Mountie's coat. "Hansel! Gretel!" He calls to the dogs in a stage whisper. Both heads shoot up at the sound of their names. "Walkies!" He's off the porch by the time Robin gets her first button undone.

Regular Barney sets the contract down on the table. "Whenever you're ready." He's not going to push her, not this time. If she says no, that contract is going back in the briefcase, and he won't mention it again. This is enough, right here, all of them on the front porch, Marshall on the beach with the dogs. Vacation Barney doesn't need any more, and Regular Barney is going to have to deal with that.

Robin slips the third button free and offers their daughter what she wants. "No time like the present. Pen?"

Ted averts his gaze and extends the pen. Robin grasps the other end and takes it from him.

It's Lily who starts the chant of, "Sign, sign, sign," but the others pick it up, soft enough that the remaning two lights still glow green, Mosby and Ericksen kids sound asleep.

Robin scrawls her signature on the appropriate line.

Barney flicks the neon colored flags where her initals need to go, and gives the paper a once over before he takes it from her. "All we need is to get this notarized, and you are once again a member of the Dominant Records family."

"Then you are in luck." Ted turns back around, one hand sheilding his eyes. "Tracy, can you get my bag?"

Robin wags the pen in Ted's general direction. "Put your hand down, dork. You've only seen my boobs, like a miliion times."

Ted swallows, his hand still in place. "Not in this context. Know what? I'm going to take the contract inside. Tracy, be my witness?"

"But you don't need a-" Tracy breaks off there, her bemused smile standing in lieu of any words. "One notarized contract coming right up." She plucks the paper from Barney's hand. "Lil, witness my witness? By which I mean slip out the back door and hit that ice cream place down the road."

Lily springs from her chair and scoops up her sandals in one hand. "Deal." She stops shy of the door and looks back over her shoulder. "What can we bring back?"

Robin doesn't look up. "Pint of butterscotch for us and two small vanillas for the dogs?"

"Got it. Barney? Want us to make that beer run on the way back?"

He doesn't answer right away. He casts a glance at the boisterous activity of Marshall and the dogs chasing the waves that lap at the shore, out of reach of their sandcastles. This time, he's the one who settles on the arm of Robin's chair. "Not tonight, thanks." His attention anchors on the sight of his girls in the glow of the porch light. "I'm good."


End file.
